lichen & trechorous september 

a headless man has been visiting our block.
he is carrying a sachel full of 
golden apples & looking for a lost horse.
i bought ear plugs for just this reason.
when the hauntings start this early in fall
you know it's best not to leave your own house.
of course, inside my door is no different.
the lichens grow across the walls.
they sing of becoming one big ruffled dress.
i tell them to hush as the moon arrives
& i close the blinds so it doesn't see me.
everyone is super romantic about the moon
but they are naive. the moon could eat anyone.
look, can you see the line of its jaw?
swooping down it will coax you 
from your guardedness with poetry
& then snap--swallow you whole. leave nothing
but your shoes. i need to survive this year
so that next year i can wear a dress.
the lichens ask if they can be my mother
& i tell them they can for now. 
i have no energy for blush or eyeshadow.
the horse comes in through my cracked window
& i shoo it out again. i point to 
the headless man but the horse shakes his head.
we never want who is looking for us. 
i am certain someone wants to find me.
i send letters to god. i send postcards
to ghosts from places i've lived. 
the dark figure of my parent's house
& the woman with only a face 
who just wanted to swallow a needle.
all the while the lichens get closer,
start climbing my legs. i tell them 
they should take their time. we have 
so many months to pass but they want
to climb right now. all over me.
a great rippling green. i laugh.
i am finally a tree. finally don't have to eat
anything but light. outside the window
the horse is running away even as 
the headless man pleads with her.
he holds a golden apple in each hand
but she is gone. are we always cruel 
to all those who love us too much? 
i made a scale for weighting my heart 
against a feather. my heart is very heavy.
i am a lichen queen. tomorrow when it rains 
i'll leave all the windows & doors open
& see who arrives.

self-diagnosis

i'm full of bees. there is a watermelon 
growing in my heart. single black seed took hold
& now i'm swelling. a whale is crossing 
my breatplate. a hurricane in my throat.
my sense of time is aching. i wake up 
in one week & go to sleep in another.
september is here to hurt me & i'm plagued
with june. a firefly slipped under my eyelids 
& now i light up all night. sit up in bed 
& try not to cry. i know this is a dramatic place
in the poem to pause & say i'm grateful for 
your company. will you drive me to the nearest
funeral home? i'm not ready but i have ideas
for my ashes. i want to become a shade
of ink or paint. stippling took over my face.
i probably need glasses either that or the world
is just getting more blurry for everyone.
why isn't sleep just a button we push
in the roof of our mouths. a ginger root exists
where each lung used to be. i have been trying
to make peace with my healing but i hate 
pillow & i hate pills & i hate being gentle 
with myself. how could i deserve that?
here i am with all these raccoon under my tongue.
i am scavenging for words. headache or brain pressure
or morgue or antidote or relief. come vaccine me
into a new year. i'm aiming for january.
i want to be alive by then. how long can i wait
for my body to be obdient again. all i'm asking for
is to control the masochism. i got am email 
that told me i'm overweight & i replied to the machine
"will you help me remove the whale or at least
the bees?" it isn't autumn yet but my hair falls out
like leaves. here comes the overcast. 
please lift me up like a charcuterie platter
& sample. tell, what do you think is wrong?

evidence of haunting 

i was babysat by ghosts. basinette down
into the basement where i rocked 
to the knocking of pipes. still, only once in awhile
did i see a full body apparition,
tall murky woman with long white hair.
she would moan & cover her eyes. 
our house had too many mirrors.
i learned my face was not always 
my face--beneath the surface 
it could easily shift into seance.
put the ouija board key in my mouth.
a piano playing itself. glasses falling 
from cabinets & making a mash of glass.
a phantom hand, removing a shard 
from my bare foot. were they envious
of my flesh, all ripe & soft?
tv turning itself on to the shopping channel.
soon, a set of brownie pans 
arrived without warning. 
a package often fell from the ceiling.
new towels & stuffed animals & once 
arrive a candelabra already lit.
flames can survive a lot of silence. 
i don't remember any of this-- 
i was a baby of course but 
when i hold my palms up to the light
to inspect i can see evidence 
of haunting. i know my parents
summoned them with a pentagram 
in the damp basement, holding hands
& reciting spells in latin. of course,
none of this is true. my babysitters
were young girls with curly hair
& freckles. they crossed their legs
& once in while left me alone
in my bed room where i might
cover my eyes & turn around.
me, my own little 
music box. a ghost putting his hands
on my shoulders to steady me. 
blinking open i said
"hello? hello?" that's still me
in the middle of a room 
spinning. my babysitter is
a skeleton. no one is watching me.

men hating parable (don't worry!) 

all my earrings turned to flies & flew off.
i bought fish hooks & forgot about the barb
so now i have fish hook earrings forever.
when i say i hate men i don't mean all the time.
i am not a fan of back pedaling though
so i'm going to take this on. men are the reason
for drought. the water is sick of becoming their mirrors.
men are the reason for multiple locks 
on any given door. men once took the moon down
& played kickball with it & that's why
there are so many bruises on its surface.
men peer in my window & ask what i'm doing here
& i always reply "i'm fishing."
there are moments where i could love them.
most of my crushes are instense & brief.
without my earrings i don't know
how i'm going to woo anyone. i need a new crush
because my last one is gone. i saw this man
in town for weeks. he had long black hair
& a purple bandana & black painted nails.
i hoped he worshiped satan or something cool
then i saw him with a girl & they held hands 
& i clapsed my own hands together like an acolyte
to walk home. the mouth is the fastest healing body part
so i take a pocket knife to my cheek & craft
a window. i made a little version of myself
to watch the world from my own mouth.
i don't know if i count in the group "men"
but i probably do. it's best to monitor this 
for future turmoil. what i really want 
is for a man to pick me up & carry me 
to a bed of flowers & tell me he loves
my scars & that he wants to look in my window 
to see my miniature self. i am so femme sometimes that
i forget i'm biological. smashing flies on the wall
leaves ugly smudges that never come out 
but at least they are momentos of my earrings.
someday, i'll live somewhere i can be
the body i want to be. i have a pair of heels
who walk the hall in my apartment alone at night.
sometimes in poems i say "house" when i mean
"apartment" because i dream of houses. 
soon this poem will end & i'll stop thinking
about men. one last things though,
next time you see one ask him what he does
with his earrings to keep them 
from becoming insects. 

carcass of a dragonfly on the 6th avenue sidewalk 

metallic angel. hovering survivor 
of the future, what brought you
to the sidewalk where all the gum 
turns scuff ? i have not seen a butterfly 
in years. does a mural count? 
wings of paper. wings of iron. of glass
& of celophane. here comes  
the sound of kneecaps & bustle.
i miss you. i never saw you alive.
where did you travel each day?
in manhattan, did you swallow garbage?
did you sip on cigarette fumes?
i walk & walk & walk through clouds
of people & all their odors + other regrets. 
i never stop not even for an ice cream 
or a handful of mango but here for you
i wanted to stop long enough to collect your soul
in my pockets to show everyone i know.
a train is coming soon 
& we will get on together. 
was there a camera in your heart?
did you mother tell you stories
of august heat? my face becomes 
a mirror & everyone looks at themselves
as i rush. often times, in the city,
a body is more a vessel than before.
coming here coming here. 
i want to deliver you where you 
were going. what kind of burial 
would you like? pristine trinket.
little nothing bird.

convalescence

the moon is sick with a virus.
turns green then yellow. decay 
on a celestial level. what does it take
for a planet to rot. i am scared
for our souls in these kinds of conditions.
i used to pray on my knees. i used to prau
every single night. mistaking the stroller
for a dark horse, i'll mutter
the our father as if it will save me.
my whole family is made of soap.
we lose whole fingers in a downpour
& a sink whittles us down. i have no use
for my digits anymore. all my veins are wires.
plug me into the cable jacket
i want to listen to MTV in my brain.
this is a reality TV show. i sit down
in a confessional & tell the camera
once i used to dream of being
a hang glider & now look at my life.
my mom asks what i do when i am 
too tired to move my body. the truth is
i lay on the floor & watch my phone 
scroll into a prophecy. please amputate
my feed. don't get me wrong
i am a voyuer but not this consistently.
where are the fruit plates? where is 
the fancy cheese? i need a frog
to sing to me. before bed, sometimes 
my dad would sing to me. i didn't deserve
that kind of mouth. i don't sing
not even alone, not even to myself.
the moon will get better if we all 
keep believing in it. i look up 
& see her full as a coin. she's coughing
into the river. up close in the mirror
my face has the texture 
of the moon. craters & another man 
lurking behind there. i fear sleep
because i'm scared i'll die before
i wake up. some wiccans believe
when we die we'll all go
to the summerland. i don't know
if i trust anything. i don't like it here
but at least i know the texture of 
saddess & feeling muscle aches.
i am pointing a kaledioscope
at the moon & telling her 
she looks so much better.

how the birds eat my trash

beak slitting plastic. gossip about
a mourning dove who is still sad.
she's thinking about capitalism & food waste.
chickadees hunger. they look at each other
& feel all the same. clones. one imagines 
a huge giant egg they all could have
came from. what makes a meal?
i scrape a spoon against the bottom of
the house looking for crumbs. 
songbird munching on plastic.
through the window i tell her
she'll die if she eat that. laughs debris
from her mouth. the flies arrive
in a cloud. the most certain sign
of demise. even the birds fear 
too many. i slice a peach 
into five pieces & eat each slowly.
once, i watched a mini documentary
about people with eating disorders
& this one man said, "i cut everything
into the smallest pieces i can."
are there birds with eating disorders?
sometimes they watch me use my tablespoon 
& i tell them to mind their own business.
a cardinal nibbles on a caramel.
sticky & sweet. somewhere in the forest,
there are hawks with their piercing faces.
my microwave is my caregiver right now.
in the morning, the trash bags
are full of little holes. banana peels
shredded & dispersed. 
at least i get to see the birds.
i'm not sure what else comes to visit
my back porch at night. the ivy grows lush
even in the shade. a fox? a raccoon?
i am scared of all mammals. they're deceptive.
a bird is an honest animal. hungry 
like me. no arms. impending flight.
i wash a bowl out in the sink. run a sponge
against a knife.

watching a snake shed its skin

my mom used to help me into stockings
one leg at a time. my steadying hand on her shoulder.
a new flesh clung to me. i got runners often
& learned to pull the tights up
higher to conceal them under a skirt or a dress.
mostly, we didn't have bandaides. waited for gashes 
to turn jeweled in the air. 
i peeled wet gloves off 
& set them on radiator. january was grey.
i learned to drink tea. toe nails grew.
we bought a sleeping bag at the thrift store.
i crawled inside. makeshift chrysalis.
no change. hair clips.
discovered dead skin on the bottoms of my feet.
four to twelve times a year.
belly reptile. what is it like
to look up through the brush? peeling an orange
all in one piece & leaving the skin
in the yard as compost. 
the body can be a hallway.
my favorite nightlight needed a new special bulb.
we found it no where. my covers became less soft
the more i turned. a rock is a good place
to press. how does anyone know
the right moment. skin on my hands.
skin on my face. i banana open.
sweet muck underneath. i was ripe
as a canteloupe. a splash of nectar.
peeling off two knee-high socks
& laying them by the side of the creek
while i waded inside. how to we make sense
of our own body's departures?
when he looks at the skin,
translucent & baring his shape, 
what does he think of?

what kind of stones?

good morning to the souls of my feet.
yes, i mean "souls" & not "soles." 
don't you trust me reader? i climbed the tree
& never came down. i befriended the wrong rocket ship
if you know what i mean. yes, one of my fists
will orbit again in twelve years. i am stargazing 
for a living. my father was a skilled astronomer.
he bought a telescope & pointed it down our throats.
i'm always painting him in a bad light.  
my poet-self is afraid of fathers.
not just my father, but all fathers. i will probably 
never have children. i'm a lineage in a jar.
the rocket is really an airplane & this poem
is very sad. i want you to cut the country in half.
once, i took scissors to a map 
of new jersey to try to visual a poem.
there's a constellation of my foot.
tomorrow, a fog will slip in 
through my windows & i will see nothing at all
when i wake up. but, remember, i'm in a tree.
i used to think i would grow up
& buy a house & now i just want
to make it to the next day & the next day 
& the nexy day. what if the tree bears fruit?
ha, it would probably be sour limes 
but i could make due with that. sucking on a lime
in the arms of the tree. i have not held someone
for a very long time. sometimes my body
takes a walk without me. oh rocket ship
what kind of stones could you bring me?
i touched a moon rock when i was ten just like
all the other people at air & space museum.
i'm afraid of getting too old to bend
into a bridge. i have unpaid tolls 
from driving away from new york. it wasn't 
an escape. it was an elegy. there, my dollars
turned to pigeons. beautiful shimmer-winged pigeons.
i feed them sunflower seeds. 
the tree will have children & the tree's children
will first emerge small as veins. 
i will tell them i'm their grandfather.
my grandfather is a ghost in my parent's attic
where he guards his box of ashes. 
cremation is the future for everything.
i would cremate my old clothing to keep
some vistage of its soul. what a material human
i have become. 

the ants always find me

unfurl from the dirt with their eating.
i wake up to a scattering of ants 
from the trash can in the living room
& i rush to press each on 
into crumple. 
i think of that dorm sophmore year 
where the ants could locate
a single misplaced cheerios on the carpet.
there is never just one.
i search for a trail but just find more 
& more across the room. down the hall.
my whole body prickles. ants can smell food
from up to 200 meters away 
& there i slept a huge wedge of meat.
could the ants have found me
as i slept? yes, yes they could have
each opened their individual mandibles
& swallowed me piece by piece.
i think they are gone. think i have won
but my heart still flutters
like a broken nestling. a new one
down from the ceiling. i remind myself
if have seen worse. one morning 
the ants devoured our mini fridge.
in my parents house a trickle of ants
march from the door to the cupboard.
this is just a scattering 
i am safe. i will win. 
where do your teeth come from?
mine arrive like a creek
of ants. i see ants from the corners
of my eyes & they are not there.
just ant ghosts. ghosts of ants.
all the tiny collapsed creatures.
if i were an ant i guess i'd do the same.
not much else but roam & roam 
& hope the wall is arching somewhere.
dear reader, sometimes i am a wall.
the ceiling is thankfully getting higher.
i am crushing each one i find.